


shaking apart at the seams

by kluxbusters



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Platonic Cuddling, Platonic D/s, giving up control, is it too much to ask to get slammed into the boards? huh?, its not platonic kneeling but its close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kluxbusters/pseuds/kluxbusters
Summary: Tyson is fidgety, he's antsy, he's jumpy. The team helps.------------Purely self-indulgent late night musings.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	shaking apart at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> hey, if this is about you or anyone you know, click the fuck off!!! let me talk about my need to get slammed into the boards in peace!!!!  
thank you to jo for inspiring this, and thanks to maia for always hyping me up :)
> 
> back to the fic: this was fun to write, even if it's super super short. it was nice to take a break from the long fics i'm working on, and i hope this makes sense?  
comments are my lifeblood.

  1. Nate

Tyson is fidgety. Everyone says so. His dad said it, his coaches say it, even his friends say it.

He tries his hardest not to fidget around other people, around people who don’t get it, but sometimes his brain moves faster than his nerves, and his hands end up twisting in his hoodie strings.

“Can you cut that out?” EJ asks from across the bus aisle.

“Cut what out?” Tyson says, hands stilling in the air.

“You’re like, clicking that pen, eh?” EJ motions towards the pen Tyson is apparently holding. 

“Oh, sorry dude,” Tyson says, turning to put the pen away.

As he turns, he makes eye contact with Nate, who looks wide-eyed, shocked in his seat. Nate tries to gesture about something, but he just looks a little stupid.

Tyson walks through the aisles of the bus, keeping his eyes on the floor until he reaches Nate. Sliding into the seat next to him, letting their thighs catch and rub together, Tyson leans into Nate.

“You need it?” Nate grunts, knocking his shoulder against Tyson’s.

“I don’t know,” Tyson says, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“Can it wait until we get back to the hotel tonight? You know I have my—”

“Yeah, yeah, you and Sid with your intricate rituals,” Tyson laughs.

Nate sighs, settling back against the polyester of the seats.

It’s later, much later, long after the game and after the team goes out for drinks that Tyson slinks to Nate’s hotel room, face dark.

Nate takes his time with Tyson that night, pressing him into the mattress, just letting him lay there, cheek against the cool sheets.

“This okay?” Nate asks, chest rumbling against Tyson’s back.

Tyson hums in response, letting his brain go numb, letting the waves wash over him, take him down.

  1. Nikita

Tyson doesn’t like the Arizona arena. It’s fucking weird to be skating in the desert, let’s be real, but there’s always something wrong with their locker room. Sometimes the AC is broken, sometimes the showers are too cold, and one time there was water? Covering the floor? 

So. Tyson’s already antsy, but now he’s stuck in the one arena he truly hates, and to top it all off, Nate isn’t even here. He’s stuck in fucking Denver, resting his stupid broken wrist because he had to go and slip on the ice outside Pepsi Center. 

“You okay, Tys?” Nietsy asks, brushing past him to get some stick tape.

“Yeah, fine,” Tyson says, distracted. He’s got a tape ball in his hand, you see, and it’s  _ imperative _ that he makes it as big as possible.

The tape ball gets batted out of his hands, and Tyson looks up to see Z towering over him.

“What the fuck, Z,” Tyson says, angry.

“You’re off,” Z says, shouldering Tyson over so he can sit against him.

It’s times like this that Tyson really remembers how big Z is, how easy it is for Z to press the long line of his body against Tyson’s and just leave it there, warmth leaking outwards.

“Hm,” Tyson huffs, trying his hardest not to lean into Z. It doesn’t work.

“Come on, let’s go for warmies,” Z says, jostling Tyson as he stands back up.

“Huh?” Tyson asks.

They make their way onto the ice, Tyson following Z like a lost puppy, before he gets into his rhythm of skate, push, skate, push, skate—

Z slams into Tyson like he’s trying to get suspended, like Tyson plays for the Wild, just how Tyson  _ needs _ it, hard and solid. Tyson leaves his feet for a second, cheek smushing against the cool plastic of the boards, before he settles back onto his skates, the weight of Z behind him, still pressing him against the boards.

“You good,” Z asks, and it’s like there’s no other sound in the arena—no other skaters, no announcers, no crowd banging against the glass.

  1. Gabe

Gabe isn’t the usual guy that Tyson comes to with this, but sometimes Gabe’s room is the closest. So Tyson pulls on socks and a faded t-shirt, and pads over to Gabe’s hotel room.

“What is it, Tys?” Gabe asks, sleepy and rumpled, even at 9 PM.

“I need—can I come in?”

“Yeah sure,” Gabe says, letting the door open.

Tyson pads into the room, feeling like his feet are too heavy and too light all at once.

“Tyson, are you okay?” Gabe asks, and Tyson doesn’t need to turn around to know he’s worried.

“Yeah, I just. Have you ever seen what Nate does to me?”

“Woah, I’m married, Tys—”

“Not sex, jesus, Gabriel, just. I need to stay still for a while.”

“Oh, sure,” Gabe says, sounding suddenly clear.

“That was a quick turnaround,” Tyson quips, turning to smirk at Gabe, but he never makes it. Gabe throws himself at Tyson, presses against him like a glob of human, walks him forward until the bed hits his knees and they tip forward.

They just stay there and cuddle for a while, until they fall asleep and EJ comes back in, shoos Tyson out, but it’s enough for Tyson, enough for him to calm down so he can sleep.

“You good?” EJ asks as Tyson heads out the door.

“Yeah,” Tyson says.

“You know you could always… you could come to me with that stuff too,” EJ says, running a hand through his hair.

Which is. Huh. Tyson didn’t know that. 

“Thanks, EJ,” Tyson says, and walks back to his room, where he texts Nate  _ EJ??????? _ And then immediately falls asleep.

  1. EJ

Tyson isn’t desperate the first time he goes to EJ. In fact, he’s not even antsy. But on a mundane Tuesday, their second off-day of the month, he gets out of the shower to a text sitting on his phone, waiting for him.

_ Can you come over? _ EJ texted.

Tyson responds sure, throws on sweats and a t-shirt, and drives to EJ’s house. He’s so excited by the notion of EJ, of getting smushed, that he doesn’t even realize he’s cold until Tyson’s standing outside EJ’s door, shivering through his clothes.

“Tyson, jesus, come inside,” EJ says, ushering Tyson through the door.

Tyson does as he’s told, but once he’s inside, launches himself at EJ, tussling for the upper hand.

They wrestle for a little bit, fingers scrabbling for purchase, before Tyson relaxes into the hold EJ has on him.

“This is great,” EJ starts. “But my back will start screaming at me unless we move this to the bed.”

“Wow, before dinner and everything? Bold, Erik.”

They head upstairs, Tyson’s feet slapping against the hardwood. He can feel EJ behind him, dogging him up the stairs, following him through the carpeted hallways.

“You cool with being the little spoon?” EJ asks.

“Isn’t that what I’m here for?” Tyson laughs, running to jump on the bed.

“Jesus, don’t break my bed, I need that,” EJ says before stripping off his shirt.

Tyson sings the opening bars of Get It On before EJ’s shirt hits hims soundly in the face.

Once shirtless and in bed, there’s no other word for it. EJ smothers Tyson, smushes him against the mattress and pillows, letting him slip under the waves of comfort again.

“Okay?” EJ whispers after a bit, arms bracketing Tyson.

Tyson hums. 

  
  
  



End file.
